


smoke gets in your eyes

by MissELY



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Ritual Public Sex, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissELY/pseuds/MissELY
Summary: “I don’t know about this.” Hermione whispers. Her heart is rattling against the inside of her ribcage and the urge to flee is nearly overwhelming.“If you weren’t committed, you should have told me so. I thought you wanted this, wanted to delve into ritual magic. If I had known that you weren’t serious, I never would have suggested this ritual.” Tom’s voice is smooth and calm, despite his harsh grip on her hair.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 25
Kudos: 181
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2020





	smoke gets in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TomioneSmutFest20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomioneSmutFest20) collection. 



> My biggest thank you to [weestarmeggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weestarmeggie/pseuds/weestarmeggie) for alpha/and semi betaing this.
> 
> Thank you also to [MrsRen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRen/pseuds/MrsRen) for reading an earlier version of this and reassuring me it was not awful.
> 
> Title is from the song Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by The Platters.

The night air cuts through her thin robe, reminding Hermione she shouldn’t be out here, not at this time, not in this state. Shivers rack her so violently that her whole body rattles. Her teeth clench hard against chattering, but her whole jaw still trembles.

She wraps her arms more tightly around her body, more to hold herself together than to provide any warmth. Her bare feet have gone numb; she doesn't feel the sharp twigs and detritus that she knows litters the floor of the Forbidden Forest.

The branches of the trees sway and creak ominously in the wind. Eyes darting around, squinting into the darkness, Hermione can feel her racing pulse. Flight or fight response, she thinks distantly; it drives blood to the extremities away from the core to prepare to flee.

Her head snaps to the right as a crack of a falling branch sounds. The Forbidden Forest is unsafe even in daylight. And here she is, near midnight, near naked, and totally alone. She straightens her spine, hastening her steps.

There is no path she's following. Rather, she’s picking her way through the forest in a route she forged herself. She has walked this way dozens of times in the light of day. But this late, with only a sliver of moon to guide her, the trees look different. They loom above her like story tale creatures in the dark, but remain familiar enough to navigate. Here is the one that looks like an old crone, bent and gnarled, and up ahead she sees the one she thought would fall on her, given the harsh angle it sits at.

No magic guides her, only memory. The ritual—the reason she is traipsing through the Forbidden Forest in nought but a thin white cotton robe that does little to protect her from the environment—requires she be free of ambient magic. She time she spent purifying before she even left the castle will be wasted if she casts even the weakest warming charm. 

There is an animal’s cry, but off by a growl so deep she can feel it in her chest. Hermione speeds up her pace again.

Her arms uncross, she holds them slightly away from her body from balance. The windchill is greater, but she doesn’t trip as much.

This is a bad idea.

Head strong and unwilling to back down from a challenge, she still scurries forward, doing her best not to stumble on tree roots, to keep her head held high, and her shaking to a minimum. She only succeeds on one front as her numb foot catches on a root and she barely keeps upright.

He had told her they only have one opportunity to do this right; that if she really wants to do the ritual, they would have to do it on Samhain, when the veil is thinnest.

He had told her that this was real magic, the sort that was purposefully kept from people like them, from outsiders. He had dangled the lure of hidden knowledge in front of her. Seduced her with dusty tomes that promised substantial benefits and access to deep magics.

He, being Tom Riddle.

Which is why she is doing her best not to run to the clearing they found a week ago. Despite the cold, despite the scary noises, despite the dark. She’s determined not to let him see her squirm. He will respect her as a fellow seeker of knowledge, as an equal.

When she reaches the clearing, she sighs in relief. The action loosens her jaw and her teeth chatter harder than ever.

But she stops short, her body jerking in shock. She blinks hard once, and then again.

Tom has done his part, there is a bonfire at the center of the break in the trees. 

But there are also a dozen people, when she only anticipated one.

Riddle is standing by the fire, the warm glow making him look ethereal in the dark. He is beautiful, and her breath catches in her chest. She tells herself it's the surprise, but she knows it’s more.

She can’t make out exactly who the others are, but she suspects. They ring the clearing, set at even intervals. They’re hooded and Hermione’s first thought is of the muggle movies about secret cults her Dad is so fond of. She bites down on her lip to stop a hysterical laugh at the thought. 

Riddle looks up sharply. Her entry hadn’t been as silent as she hoped. The others follow his gaze, and suddenly she is the center of attention.

He lifts his hand and crooks a single finger, beckoning her. She hesitates, not liking being called like that, like she is lesser, though the lure of him and of the heat of the fire is strong.

She casts her gaze again around the edge of the clearing. Now that they are turned towards her she can make out faces from under their hoods, though the firelight exaggerates their features, making them sharper than usual.

She knows them all.

There is Draco Malfoy, one of Riddle’s first lackeys and a near constant thorn in her side. The scion of the richest family in wizarding Britain and an absolute prick. His father is on the Board of Governors and is a member of the Wizengamot.

There is Justin Finch-Fletchley. When she first met him he had bragged about his place at Eton, about his father’s connections. She had verified his claims the summer after first year when she saw a photo of him and his family in The Guardian.  _ Pictured at the opening of the Finch-Fletchley Wing of The Royal London Hospital. From L to R Lord Gerald Finch-Fletchly, his wife Lady Charlotte, and their son Justin. _

There is Harry Potter. She considers him a friend, though she’s self-aware enough to know that he probably considers her an acquaintance. His father is the head of the DMLE, his mother is a prominent charms researcher, and his god-father the head of the Black family.

There are more, all classmates in her year or the year below. Theodore Nott, Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson, Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, Neville Longbottom. All friends of Riddle’s.

Well, ‘friends.’

Because she sees the way Riddle looks at these people, when they’re not looking at him. It’s not friendly.

His back is to the fire now, making him a dark silhouette and obscuring his features.

“Hermione,” Riddle’s voice is too loud in the near silent forest, animal noises long since faded. Maybe they know something is going to happen here. Something powerful. Something unnatural.

“You didn’t tell me there would be anyone else.” Her voice is too high. Her eyes narrow and her hands clench. Open and shut. Open and shut.

The silhouette that is Riddle cocks its head. “You knew that the ritual required a coven.”

She is still shaking, from the cold she tells herself. “I thought—I thought the coven could be small, would be just us—”

“No.”

For a minute she is rooted to the spot. Shivers still rack her body, and she feels like the only thing holding her together, keeping her from flying apart is her arms wrapped firmly around her middle. But she recognizes a challenge when she sees one, and she will not have this conversation with Riddle shouting across a clearing with all his followers to hear. She picks her way to him, on tiptoes at some points to avoid disturbing the runes that coat the floor of the forest. 

His features become more visible as she approaches.. He regards her, no emotion on his face. His eyes flick up and down the length of her body, once and then again.

Her hair is down, wild curls fanning out behind her, per his instructions. She knows that at least a couple of leaves and twigs have gotten caught in it on her walk to the clearing. Her feet are dirty and there are scratches on her arms and legs from her path through the forest. She looks wild. But his gaze is covetous.

He is also dressed in a thin cotton robe, but he is not shaking with the cold. She can’t even see goosebumps in the exposed skin of his chest or arms.

Maybe the fire is warming him. Maybe he just doesn’t  _ feel _ .

She hesitates, stopping short of his grasp. She looks around the clearing once more and crosses her arms, tucking the folds of her robe more closely to her body.

Her nipples are hard points, and she feels the weight of everyone’s eyes, a physical thing in her skin. She consciously relaxes her shoulders and straightens her back. She will not show weakness, not in front of this crowd, not in front of Riddle. The hem of her robe lightly brushes her calves, tickling. She resists the urge to reach down and scratch, instead concentrating on the glint in Riddle’s eyes.

He is standing next to the fire ringed in a circle of runes drawn in salt. Circles of runes radiate outwards, some carved in the dirt, others outlined in small stones she and he had gathered by the Black Lake. She recognizes the runes at his feet, the ones in salt, having helped to translate the ritual from Ancient Greek to English. There is the series for power, there is the one for understanding.

She does a double take, there are some new ones here, ones she doesn’t recognize. Didn’t agree to. She squints, trying to make out what they are, but the smoke is in her eyes and the flickering firelight is playing trick on her sight.

Opening her mouth, she is ready to correct him, high-handed bastard that he is, ready to make a scene. But Riddle leans forward and touches her hand, and her words die on her lips.

His hand wraps around her wrist, and he pulls her towards him. She stumbles, trying to avoid stepping on the runes. His grip isn’t gentle, and she feels the press of his fingertips into the soft skin of her wrist. She is sure he can feel her pulse quicken under his fingers.

He draws her into the cage of his arms.

She holds herself stiff, resisting the urge to lean into his warmth. He smells smokey, of petrichor, and old parchment.

Arms folded in front of her, they are now pressed against his chest. The angle is uncomfortable, and she imagines that the watchers on the edge must think she looks awkward.

One of his hands cups the back of her head, lacing through her curls.

His other hand splays low on her back, just over her arse. His thumb strokes her chilled skin through the fabric of her robe.

He leans down so that his mouth is level with her ear. “Relax.”

His command is more air than words, meant for her alone, not for the people who ring the clearing.

She pulls back and turns so she can look at the side of his face. She can tell he didn’t shave this morning, she can see the hint of blue-black stubble on his chin.

“I don’t know about this.” She whispers. Her heart is rattling against the inside of her ribcage and the urge to flee is nearly overwhelming.

“We’ve gone through this. You told me you were ready. You told me that you wanted this.” His voice is patient but his hand tightens in her hair.

Hermione swallows hard.

“Yes,” she hisses through gritted teeth, still trying to contain the chattering of her teeth, “yes, but that was when I thought it would be you and I, not a whole crowd. And what is that new sequence in the inner circle? I thought that we had agreed on all the runes that needed to be in salt, I don’t recognize—”

His hand in her hair tightens to the point of pain, cutting off her rambling. The sharp pull lights her nerves and she squeezes her thighs together at the sudden rush of warmth to her core.

“If you weren’t committed, you should have told me so. I thought you wanted this, wanted to delve into ritual magic. If I had known that you weren’t serious, I never would have suggested this ritual.” His voice is smooth and calm, despite his harsh grip on her hair.

Her teeth worry her bottom lip. Her eyes dart around the clearing, from the bonfire to the runes in salt and dirt and stones in radiating circles, out from the fire.

Riddle is right, the time and effort put into this is immense. They’ve been researching since last Spring, when they were made partners in Ancient Runes. They had found the ritual right before summer break and spent months thoroughly translating it. It had taken two weeks of sneaking out to ready the space alone. Hours passed together on their hands and knees, painstakingly going over each rune over and over again.

And she is hungry. She is hungry for experience, for information, for knowledge. And, self-aware as she prides herself in being, she is stubborn. She doesn’t want to reveal herself to be a coward, not in front of these people. Not in front of Riddle, her constant academic rival.

The sunk cost fallacy flits briefly across her mind but she shakes her head to clear the thought. Just because she invested time and resources into this project, does not mean she should continue to do so if the project is doomed to be a failure.

No.

She will see this through.

Her shivers slowly subside as Riddle’s body heat and the fire, warm her. Without the cold biting into her, and Riddle shielding her from the wind she feels her senses dull. The pulse of the magic in the clearing is intoxicating.

She turns her head slowly, her forehead resting against Riddle’s chest. She breaths in his scent and lets out a shaky exhale.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”

He pulls her head back by her hair, tilting her face up so he can kiss her, hard and vicious. Her chapped lips split under the pressure of his onslaught and she can taste blood. She tries to respond, but he is overwhelming. He tugs her hips closer to his.

That’s when she feels him, hard against her, through the thin material of their robes. He is thick and Hermione imagines she can feel him twitch, but she’s not sure.

He releases her from the kiss and presses his lips to the crown of her head, surprisingly tender for what is about to be a rather transactional sexual experience.

She didn’t kid herself that this would in any way be romantic or sensual. She was aware, even before the audience appeared, that this ritual sex would be just that, ritual.

She isn’t sentimental about it. She had divested herself of her virginity summer before her sixth year with a muggle from her neighborhood who she had briefly fancied herself in love with. He had been bookish and handsome. The sex had been disappointing. They had stopped talking shortly before she returned to school, unable to fully invest in a relationship with someone who could not understand all that she was.

Riddle keeps a hold of her and walks her backwards, pushing her with him to the slab of stone placed on the north side of the fire.

Though there is no cushioning charm on it, she is pleased to see that he had the foresight to bring a fluffy comforter and school-issue pillows, so at least the skin of her back won’t be scratched up by the rough crags of the rock.

Taking a step back, he looks away from her. The cold cuts back through her and she does her best not to lean into him or into the fire.

He nods, a general commanding an army, and the onlookers step closer as one. Again, Hermione’s eyes go from face to face of her classmates. None of them acknowledge her, but they all look at her. Electricity runs through her veins.

Riddle reaches for the tie of her robe. Her arms are still tightly crossed over her abdomen, so he is forced to pry them apart. She releases herself reluctantly. His long, delicate fingers pluck at the tie and her robe falls open, leaving her front bare beneath his clinical gaze.

If she hadn’t felt his thick length pressed against her a minute ago, Hermione would think he is entirely unaffected based on his body language.

His hands unfasten his robe and he is bared to her as well.

He is bigger than she expected. Thick in a way her previous lover hadn’t been. She worries about lubrication. If they have to have sex without magic, then a lubrication spell is out of the question, and she hadn’t had the foresight to bring muggle lube. She doesn’t even own muggle lube.

His hand goes to his cock, making lazy swipes up and down its length. His thumb runs over the head, red-purple with blood. She can see something shine in the firelight that he catches on the pad of his finger and drags down his length. Pre-come, she thinks clinically. Made by the vas-deferens, normally do not contain the same percentage of motile sperm as ejaculate.

She has been looking at his cock for too long now. Her head jerks up to meet his gaze. He no longer looks cool and unaffected. A cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and Hermione feels her cheeks redden. The heat of her blush runs down her body and she is suddenly hot all over, the sharp cold of the night forgotten.

Recklessness takes hold; she shrugs off the robe leaving her bare to him. Bare to the dozen watchers too, she remembers abruptly. Her arms don’t shoot to cover her modesty, but it’s a close thing.

His grin looks feral in the firelight, his normally handsome features seem inhuman. Is he getting off on her discomfort?

Riddle drops his robe. He has nothing to be ashamed about. He is lean and broad shouldered, and Hermione allows herself to admire his form. He is defined, but he has the body of someone who has not had to work for his beauty; his muscles have not been sculpted by hard work, but by nature.

He knows he’s beautiful.

Smug bastard.

There is something in the air. It’s a pressure that sings through her and it makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It is part magic, part fear. She feels like prey; she knows that there is a predator nearby, but she can’t run.

Her eyes go wide as he stalks forward, closing the gap that has opened up between them.

Hermione takes a step back, and her ankles hit the raised stone bed. His hand goes to her shoulder, and he pushes her down.

The stone is still cold and hard, even through the plush comforter and pillows.

Riddle looms over her, and her heartbeat whooshes in her ears, drowning out the crackle of the fire.

“Open your legs.”

Hermione crawls backwards on the stone slab, with half a mind to continue to crawl off of the other side. This is more intense than she could have ever expected, and the pressure of the magic, the pressure of the eyes watching her, the pressure of Riddle’s presence is almost too much.

Almost.

Her pride keeps her on the slab. And she licks her lips, tongue running over chapped skin.

Riddle kneels on the edge and crawls towards her on all fours.

Hermione bites down on her lip.

She can taste blood again.

He hovers above her, his weight on his hands and knees, holding himself still.

“Trace the runes.” 

Her mind goes blank, just for a minute, before she remembers. Yes. The runes. Of course.

Hermione tilts her head so she can see over the edge of the bed of stone. There is a shallow bowl filled with a liquid that looks black in the dark, hidden from the light of the fire.

She reaches down and dips a finger in it. It’s blood. Or at least, she thinks it’s blood. It should be blood. The ritual calls for blood. A mix of his and hers they had made under the last full moon and placed under stasis.

She raises her arm. Her hand is shaking. The liquid is cold and thick, and it runs down her hands, rivulets that race down her wrist, down her arms. She traces a series of runes on Riddle’s chest.  _ Reynt _ for power.  _ Spyrr _ for time.  _ Veit _ for understanding. She feels the drag of her finger over the surprisingly soft skin of his chest. She didn’t think anything was soft about Riddle.

She blows gently on the wet, and she sees goosebumps raise on his chest. It is a more human reaction than she thought he would have.

He reaches down into the same bowl. His strokes across her chest press into her skin. The scrape of his fingernail leaves a line through the blood.  _ Rvnar _ for wisdom.  _ Sialfr _ for communication.  _ Rótom _ for control.

The chill of the night makes the wet on her skin feel frozen. But he mirrors her and blows a warm breath across the marks.

She shuts her eyes against the sensation.

Her nipples are already hard peaks, from the cold, she tells herself.

He pushes his finger against her lips. Her tongue darts out involuntarily. She tastes the coppery tang of blood and swallows hard against her desire to retch.

“Open your legs,” he says again. She shifts, doing her best to accommodate his bulk. He repositions himself, so that his left hand is free, while the right supports his weight, holding himself just enough above her so that their abdomens don’t touch.

“I’m not—I’m not wet” She does her best to keep her voice quiet, so that those surrounding them can’t hear.

Riddle’s bloody hand skates down the length of her body. She sees the marks it leaves, fainter as he gets further down. He stops at her nipples. He pinches them, harder than she would have, but it still makes her arch against them, her pulse fast, skin tight. He circles her nipples gently brushing up and down, before repeating the harsh pinch.

His head dips and he catches one hard peak between his teeth before laving his tongue across it again and again. He alternates biting, sucking, and licking, going from one breast to the other.

His fingers continue the path down her body. She sucks in her stomach self-consciously as his fingers follow its curve.

He runs his fingers across the curls that hide her slit. Petting her, she thinks semi-hysterically. A finger runs down,up and then down her folds again, not delving into her depths, not yet.

She feels hot and her breath is now coming in short pants. She can see the fog of her breath hanging in the air above them.

He pulls back off of her breast and they ache from his attentions.

He is looking at her cunt, using one hand to hold her open to his gaze. She squirms, uncomfortable with the attention, with the detached assessment of her most intimate parts. He uses a forefinger to touch her clit. Gentle at first, but then he applies more pressure, and she tilts her hips, hoping that he will change to contact into something she could find satisfying.

The ritual doesn’t call for foreplay, but it will certainly make it easier.

Someone on the ring of people watching coughs and she jolts, body jumping. The motion makes her hips press against his finger, and he rubs down hard on her clit. Her toes curl and she gasps.

“Do you like being watched?” Hermione would take his tone for cool if there wasn’t such a ravenous look in his eyes.

She says nothing, eyes fixed on the runes she painted on him. She can feel the blush in her cheeks, across her chest. Her skin feels unfamiliar, stretched thin over her bones and muscle and fat.

“I think it excites you, being watched by all these people you know. Pretty little Head Girl. Not quite a good girl now are you? Imagine what sort of example you’re setting. Tsk tsk.”

She averts her eyes from him, but when she turns her head she catches Pansy’s eyes. The pug-nosed girl is staring at them like they are an oasis and she is dying of thirst.

Hermione turns her head away again.

“What about you?” Hermione’s whisper is harsh. “You’re Head Boy. You should—” her breath catches as he leans back down to nip at her breast. That will leave a mark.

He chuckles darkly and she can feel it against the damp skin of her chest, the warm puffs of air.

“But you like it.” He continues as if she had said nothing. “You’re wet from it. I can feel it, here.”

Pressing his entire hand against her cunt she grinds down on to the contact.

She reaches down and palms his cock. His eyes get gratifyingly wide.

“It seems like you do too.” She pitches her voice low, still not wanting to be overheard. The circle of people around them has tightened again though, and the clearing is quiet other than the sounds of the fire. There is nothing that the watchers will not hear.

“Yes, I like it.” Riddle says immediately. Obviously there is no shame for her to play on. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of. Mysterious, brilliant, beautiful, charming orphan boy. Shows up at Hogwarts, makes fast friends with the most prominent members of his house, slowly collects the children of other important people, both Magical and Muggle alike.

She had been the holdout until last year. Harry had sung his praises. Ginny had followed him around practically drooling. Even Luna had spoken of him with something as close to awe. When she had asked what was it about him that made him so enthralling, no one had ever been able to give her a satisfactory answer. Harry had shrugged and tried to say that it was just him. Ginny had told her that it was his personality and charm. Luna explained that he attracted the most interesting creatures.

But there had always been something off about him. Nothing she could ever put her finger on or articulate. Something behind his eyes. So she had resisted him. At least until he had sung the siren song of ritual magic to her. A branch of magic normally cordoned off from muggleborns, only accessible to those with old families who practiced old magic.

“Focus on me.” Riddle punctuates his command by pressing two fingers into her, and then a third. She hisses at the burn of the intrusion. It’s too much too fast, but the pain of it sends another throb of desire down her spine and heat curls low in her abdomen.

A high whine tumbles from her lips, even though she presses them together to try to contain the sound. She curls her hand around his cock and gives it a few pumps, her thumb following the ridge of the thick vein she feels.

“Do you have the chant memorized?” He sounds breathless now too and Hermione grins, smug.

“Of course I do,” she rolls her eyes, continuing to touch his cock. She wonders where else he may be sensitive, how much more flustered can she make him. She leans up and nips at his pulse point. He bucks further into her hand, so she repeats the motion.

“Stop,” he growls.

She opens her mouth, prepared to tease him. But he crooks his fingers just so and instead of words a moan echoes across the clearing.

He pulls back to tall knees, and it forces her to let go of his cock. A pretty cock, really.

His fingers are still inside of her. He crooks them again and begins to move them, back and forth against that spot inside of her that makes her see stars. The crackle of the fire does nothing to drown out her harsh pants or the wet, obscene sound his fingers make as they plunge in and out of her. His thumb runs up and over and across and under her clit with increasing pressure on each swipe. Hermione lets out a choked out noise that she refuses to believe is a sob and her back arches off of the stone slab.

She comes, fluttering around his fingers, gasping for air like a fish out of water, body shaking again, but this time it’s nothing to do with cold.

She closes her eyes to catch her breath, but they pop open when she hears a wet sound. He is sucking his fingers, one by one, as if she spilled the sweetest of nectar over his hand. 

She can see her slick on and their blood on his hand.

The groan that she gives is low and desperate, and even through the aftershocks she can feel another wave building from that image alone.

He smiles, all teeth. She arches her back to try to entice him to touch her again. The stone is no longer cold through the blankets, but it is still hard and she can feel where there will be bruises from where she had pushed herself into it, where he had pushed her into it.

He leans back down, lining his length up with her entrance. “Did you like that? Did you like coming in front of all these people? They saw you, they saw how your cunt pulsed around my fingers.”

Hermione throws an arm across her face, trying to block out the images that Riddle has skillfully put in her mind. She feels so empty now. He pulls her arm away from her face roughly, his fingers hard around her wrist. She will have several bruises from tonight.

“Don’t hide yourself,” he bites out.

He catches her eye, and she does her best to recall the chant she had memorized as he takes his cock and lines it up with her.

The chant is simple and repetitive. She starts, doing her best to keep her voice even. He joins in, his voice surprisingly pleasant. The magic around them surges and runs over their skin. She shudders with the sensation of it. It is electricity; it is fire; it is pressure. It is power.

He pushes in and despite his earlier ministrations, the stretch of his thick cock still burns. She does her best to continue with the chant but she is even more breathless now and so, so, so full.

Splitting her attention between being fucked and trying to chant is more difficult than she had anticipated when she first considered performing this ritual. Especially when Tom changes his angle so that he brushes against  _ that spot _ inside of her with every thrust.

The firelight makes the sweat on his forehead shimmer and she can see where his pale skin is flushed. This is as un-perfect, as raw, as she has ever seen him.

More voices join in the chant, and she cranes her neck. The circle of people around them has tightened again. They are now only a few feet away. She catches Harry’s eyes. His gaze is on her chest, her breasts bouncing with Riddle’s every thrust. The runes on their chests have become smudged, and she knows that there will be hickeys and bite marks on her breasts in the morning. Her nipples are hard to the point of aching and she wonders if Harry would reach down and touch them if she asked.

The through makes her clench down on Riddle. His hips stutter out of their smooth rhythm, and he chants through gritted teeth.

His fingers dig into her thighs and he repositions her legs, so that they are draped over his shoulders. His first thrust in the new position knocks the air from her lungs, and her chant is high, needy and desperate.

She is so close, and she catches Riddle’s eye to try to communicate that she is about to fly apart. A new look of intensity comes across his face, and his push into her is relentless.

She shatters.

She feels the buzz of the magic, that was licking her skin like the tongues of a flame, consume her, delving under her skin. She feels alight with pleasure, with magic, with power.

And then there is pain.

She screams with it. It is unexpected and fierce, and her hands fist in the comforter. There is a tearing sound, and she knows she has ripped something. But she can’t think through the pain. Through the pleasure. Through the sensation.

The stuttering clench of her cunt and the arch of her back throws off Riddle’s rhythm.

His hips press into her, once, twice, and then a third time before he crushes her to him. She can feel the pulse of his cock inside of her.

The chanting stops.

The clearing is returned to silence other than the crackle of the fire.

The runes that were on her skin in blood are now carved into her chest. She brings up a disbelieving hand, and her fingertips are black with blood. She can feel the sting of the fresh cuts on her skin.

Blood flows down from the fresh cuts on Riddle’s chest as well.

He throws back his head and laughs, high and cutting through the night air.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at something that felt ominous/not straight fluff or erotic. (Also my first time at present tense). I would love feedback.
> 
> Comments/kudos are my love language


End file.
